


His Feral Boy

by ornategrip



Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Unhealthy Relationships, porny sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 05:43:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11776674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ornategrip/pseuds/ornategrip
Summary: Edward Teach remembers.





	His Feral Boy

**Author's Note:**

> This was labeled Bummer Porn while I was writing it, so there's that. Now it's got a generic title because I couldn't think of anything clever.
> 
> I don't think we ever got a canon age for Charles or when Teach picked him up. I have him at about 16/17 here, so it is underaged, please keep that in mind before choosing to read.

Charles had been far too young the first time he had slunk into Teach’s bed. Young and feral and so determined to fuck that Teach hadn’t had the heart to turn him out.

“You don't have to, boy,” Teach had said and Charles had glared at him from behind his hair, all sharp planes and lines. Still half-starved, his feral boy, still learning the sway of a ship beneath his feet and the feel of a knife within his palm. He was beautiful in the guttering lamp light but Teach had access to plenty of beautiful things.

Things he didn't have to pay for, things he had stolen and taken, beautiful things he could break and throw away because very few things were truly priceless.

“You don't have to,” he had repeated and had made no move towards or away.

“I want to,” Charles had answered fiercely and that had been the end of that. Even then, back in the beginning, Teach could never tell him no.

He had let him lead, let him paw clumsy hands at Teach's waist, fingers fumbling at his ties. Charles had stripped off his own clothes so easily, unembarrassed by his nudity, his scars. Had thrown the thin shirt and pants to the side, to puddle on the floor, unimportant and so forgotten.

Teach had sat at his desk and simply watched.

Charles hadn't taken him into his mouth, had only stroked him with his slave-work roughened hands, eyes darting to look up at Teach's face now and again. Teach pretended not to notice the nervous flicker because the boy had pride, his spine was made of it. Instead, he had dropped his own palm to the top of Charles' head, to card through his tangled hair.

Charles had allowed the touch, which had been a surprise. In all honesty, Teach had expected a gnashing of teeth, a low threatening sound. Not Charles accepting this kindness, not pressing up slightly to take in more of Teach's touch.

The quiet doubt that had been curled up in the back of his mind had reared up then. Charles needed a father; Teach had wanted a son. This intimacy, this carnality, the lines it would blur, was it worth it? What would he and Charles be at the end of it?

It might have been best to slot Charles into one and only one role. Son or lover.

But. But how often had Charles asked for something in his short life? How often had he reached out and taken what he wanted? If Teach refused him now, would Charles disappear at the next port, vanishing among the many unwashed bodies, never to be seen again?

Teach had already been so fond of him.

In the end, he had allowed it to continue, Charles stroking his cock to hardness, Teach spreading his legs and grateful that his desk chair was well-made and sturdy. Taken from a fat merchant who had died before getting the chance to beg, it had creaked a bit but held steady even when Charles had climbed onto his lap. Even when, slick with too much oil, Charles had slowly lowered himself onto his cock.

That, at least, Teach had insisted upon, stopping the boy when he first made to get on his lap and turning him in place so that Charles' hands were braced on the desk, his ass canted towards Teach. He had run his palms over the scars on Charles' back before working the boy open with his fingers, one hand spanned across Charles' shoulder blades, the other disappearing between his ass cheeks. 

He had taken his time, no matter how Charles had hissed and twisted like an angry cat, demanding he get on with it. Teach was a big man and no matter what Charles mistakenly believed, he could not take him without certain measures being met.

It hadn't had felt good for Charles, that first time. There was no way around it, no matter how much prep or oil. Teach's girth and length gave seasoned whores pause, what chance did a green boy have?

Staring up at his grimacing face, the stubborn jut of his jaw, Teach did not stop him. Had simply put his hands on Charles hips to feel the flex of his muscles underneath his skin, the white-hot heat of him. Had let him take and take and take. Charles needed to learn how to take, not just to survive, but to take because he wanted. Because he desired something. Because it was his right. And sometimes, in the taking, there was pain.

This was just another lesson to be taught.

Charles was young though, so it was easy enough to coax his cock back to hardness despite the pain. To stroke that cock until Charles was gasping high and tight, hips rolling, thighs flexing. Until he bit his lip hard enough to bleed, fingers digging into Teach's shoulders and spilled across both their bellies.

Teach had come soon after, using Charles' limp body to completion.

He remembered the first time Charles had come to him and the last, but all the other times in between had blurred together, long before Charles had betrayed him for Eleanor Guthrie. Taken for granted, perhaps, or maybe the fact that Teach didn't like to dwell on whatever lay between them. Charles was like his son, like his own flesh and blood and still that had not stopped him from allowing Charles to climb on his lap and take him into his body.

The times they fucked were best left to the night and the dim lamp light.

There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the times Charles would come to him. After a brutal raid, after a calm week at sea. It never seemed to matter. Eventually, Teach's door would crack open. Eventually, Charles would slip inside. Eventually, Charles would end up on Teach's lap, taking his cock deep.

And that was always how it went, Teach as passive as he could stand to be, Charles rising and falling on his lap like the waves when the winds were high. The only way Charles would take him, the only way Charles allowed himself to be touched. Riding Teach, being in control. Teach always let him and never said no.

For a very long time, that was simply the way they were. During the day, Charles was his protege, his pride, his obvious successor. And on rare nights, Charles was his lover, blood hot and voracious in his arms. Teach honestly believed it would never change. How foolish he had been, a sailing man such as he. He knew how quickly the sea changed, how quick-silver she could be.

Nothing was unchanging.

The last time, oh the last time. Mere days before Eleanor Guthrie showed her hand and Charles had followed suit, standing beside that ridiculous golden-haired child as she demanded he leave. Eleanor he had expected, she had made no attempt to hide her disgust of him but he had not feared her. He thought his back well covered.

Charles had seemed more wild than usual that night, biting at Teach's mouth, dragging his nails down his chest. Marking Teach in a way he very rarely did anymore. Back in the beginning, certainly, when Charles was still earning his place amongst the crew, back when he hadn't understood all that Teach was offering him, he would bite and scratch Teach then. So desperate to prove how vicious he could be despite the fact Teach had taken one look at him and had known exactly what type of animal was living inside him.

The type of wild beast Teach could tame and mold and turn into something like a legacy.

Charles must have known then that Eleanor would be making her move to rid Nassau of Teach. Must have known and still come crawling into Teach's lap, all muscle and brawn. Such a far cry from the too-thin boy Teach had rescued all those years ago. Still a spitting, hissing cat but a lion now, not a cub.

They had fucked and Charles had stayed curled on his chest longer than usual, his fingers tangled in Teach's beard.

Teach hadn't known but Charles had. One last fuck to say goodbye.

He had had too much heart then. Too much heart to kill Eleanor because killing her meant killing Charles. His heart had stayed his hand that time. And his pride had stayed his mouth, fury at the betrayal keeping him from any attempt at reconciliation.

Perhaps if he had spoken then, it all would have turned out differently.

Such a bitter pill to swallow.

He had still had the red scour marks of Charles' nails under his clothes as he had sailed away from Nassau and all that he had accomplished. Had stood on the deck of his ship and refused to look behind at the boy he had raised into a man who had betrayed him at the end.

Not enough heart to turn him away.

Too much heart to kill him and be done with it.

And now, now Teach had no heart left at all, ripped out still beating from his chest because Charles was dead, hung in Nassau and left to rot.

And that burned thick and sour on his tongue, to not even be there as a witness. Charles deserved a witness, deserved Teach there to take his body, to bury his bones. No, to throw his bones to the ocean that was his mistress, to let him sink beneath the waves where a pirate belonged.

He turned to his men, all who had paused in whatever pursuits they had been in to watch him with wary eyes.

“Get the ships ready,” he said, his voice steady and calm, “We go hunting Flint.”

Charles' death would be answered with blood, one way or another. He owed his beautiful, feral, boy that.


End file.
